


Frozen Expressions

by TK_DuVeraun



Series: Legacies (SW:TOR) [9]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-28 16:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_DuVeraun/pseuds/TK_DuVeraun
Summary: All Arimo'rathi'seris wanted was to save his brother. Despite researching with an intensity to make any member of House Seris proud, it may have been a mistake to approach Lord Faximil for help with the endeavor.---Backstory forMorning Comes





	1. Miscalculation

**Author's Note:**

> Lagacies is a mess. I apologize. Kind of.
> 
> Read order should be: The Fox and the Hound -> Frozen Expressions -> Morning Comes.

Lord Faximil’s office is as far as it can be from the Citadel proper while still technically being in the Citadel complex. It’s a fact that reassures Morathis as he boldly walks into a building he has no business being in. He’s in his brilliantly white Ascendancy uniform - a better disguise than any illusion could hope to be against the Sith. As a Chiss, he’s beneath their notice and as a member of Ascendancy, he’s too much of a hassle to kill. This far from the seat of power, no minor Lord would risk the Dark Council’s wrath for upsetting the Ascendancy.

When Morathis makes it to the correct floor, there’s no one else in sight. He walks past Faximil’s closed door to the office on the far side. It was owned by a petty Sith Lord until an accident collecting a new apprentice just a week before. Now, it’s empty and Morathis slips in. His breathing is even and calm. He feels the same frozen facade on his face chilling and muting his emotions. A  _ good _ Sith would be able to feel him if he was agitated. And by all accounts, Faximil is good at his job.

And any Sith committing treason the scale Faximil is rumored to  _ has _ to be good to still be alive.

Morathis draws a black-bladed dagger with his right hand and spins it expertly in his grip. The blade feels  _ hungry, _ but cooperative, even to a Force Blind. With his left hand, he flips the release on the false wall to open the way into Faximil’s Office. With speed that his muscles will pay for later, Morathis lunges through the false wall as soon as the gap is wide enough to squeeze through. In less than a second, he has the tip of his dagger pressed into the base of the Sith’s skull.

“I’ve heard that you hide Forcers. The ones too weak to survive Sith training. You’re going to save my brother,” Morathis says. He examines the Sith while he waits for a response. The only holos of Faximil showed him masked and hooded with the red Sa’alle marks painted on a grey grotesquery as the only identifiable feature.

In the shattered sanctity of his office, Faximil is a red-haired human with no marks on his face. He looks young, like he’s only just filled out from being a gangly teenager, but there’s no fear in his expression. Faximil turns his head, as if to look at Morathis, but not enough to actually do so. It’s more of an acknowledgement of his presence.

“I commit no treasons, little spy,” Faximil says, his voice a warm tenor. “Crawl back under the ice and pray to your ancestors, or whatever it is your people do.”

Morathis presses the cursed blade more firmly into the Sith’s skin. He’s tempted to slice off the other man’s ponytail to make a point, but he doesn’t want to move the knife long enough to do so. He says, “You  _ will _ save my brother, Sith.”

A blast of Force energy crashes into Morathis’s face. Though he’s trained well enough that he doesn’t flinch or move the knife, he’s stunned long enough for the Sith to pull out of immediate danger. Morathis slashes forward, but the knife is ripped from his hand with inhumanly strong fingers and pressed against his own neck. Even though he’s not touching it, Morathis can still feel the blade’s hunger.

Faximil takes his time examining Morathis. They’re of a height, but Faximil looks like he’d be physically stronger, even if not for the Force. Faximil’s eyes are blue and narrowed as he looks Morathis up and down. The lack of corruption on the Sith’s face during the examination is small comfort with the cursed knife at Morathis’s throat.

The Sith speaks again, his voice the unsettling calm of a predator. “I’m no traitor.”

“I can hardly reveal you, if I want you to save my brother, can I?” Morathis says, though his voice barely comes out above a whisper. Beneath the ice, he’s afraid, but it’s far too late to back down.

Faximil’s expression doesn’t change at Morathis’ words. He merely adjusts his grip on the knife before leaning in. When Faximil is nose-to-nose with Morathis, he asks, “And just who is claiming I’m a traitor?”

Before Morathis can even register the question, he feels a brutal stab to his mind. He gasps and clutches Faximil’s arm as one by one his memories are snatched from his mind and brought forward in his consciousness with claws like the tips of Faximil’s gloves. Morathis’s breath comes in shallow pants and no matter how hard he concentrates, he can’t close his eyes or look away from Faximil.

The first memories ripped forward are of him meeting in dark corners and loud catinas, being whispered scant traces of hope that Tava might survive Arimo’s disavowing him. He assumes that will be the end of it,  _ hopes _ that Faximil just wants to know who has information to blackmail him, but that’s not the case. Faximil digs deeper, through Morathis’ mental defenses that had feel so reassuringly solid before he came here.

Faximil steals the knowledge of the secret Arimo flat Tava’s secreted away in, hidden as it is in the middle of Nar Shaddaa’s pleasure district. Morathis screams in his head, “No! You can’t have him! I won’t let you hurt him!”

But Faximil’s expression is unmoved when he releases his hold on Morathis’ mind and shoves him away. The Sith examines the cursed knife while Morathis pants for breath and tries to regain control of himself and his emotions.

“I-” Morathis starts, but is immediately interrupted.

“You will kill them. All of those that said I was a traitor. When they are dead, then, perhaps, your brother will be safe from the Sith.” Faximil tosses the knife when he’s done speaking and it sinks into the wall next to Morathis’ head.

“If you hurt him-”

Faximil turns his back on Morathis in clear dismissal. Not an ounce of concern at leaving a desperate man at his unguarded back. “Don’t bother going back to Nar Shaddaa. He’s already mine.”

\---

It takes Morathis less than a week to silence the voices he heard whispering about Faximil Sa’alle giving sanctuary to Forcers unable or unwilling to become Sith. They’re not difficult to kill. Even the Sith zabrak with sharp, black tattoos is handily dealt with. Outside of Faximil himself, no one has ever turned Morathis’ cursed dagger back on himself. He’d stolen it from the House Arimo vaults the same day he defied them by saving Tava. He’s not about to let some self-important, barely a man,  _ human _ take his little brother away.

But despite doing Faximil’s dirty work, he doesn’t send the Sith the heads. He doesn’t send the Sith anything, at first. He’s done the job, but on  _ his own _ terms and he’s going to make Faximil regret toying with him, one way or another. Though he fears for Tava’s safety, he knows he has to go through Faximil to get to him.

So he spends two months crafting his  _ message _ for Faximil before returning to the Citadel complex. Again, Morathis breaks in via the office next to Faximil’s, but it feels pointless when the Sith is staring straight at him as the false wall slides away. Regardless, Morathis stalks inside and tosses a holounit on the Sith’s desk. 

“It’s done. Give me my brother back,” Morathis says.

Even though Faximil never appears without his mask, the eyebrow he raises at Morathis is clearly sculpted. The Sith takes his time turning to the holounit and activating it. Instead of recordings of the murders, Morathis took his time attending each funeral for the deceased and capturing the shattered images of the grieving families. He isn’t about to give a Sith the bloodbath he desires.

Faximil watches the holos in their entirity before looking back at Morathis. He quirks his eyebrow again. “Why is it that you’re still here?”

“I want my brother back.”

Faximil gives Morathis his back again. “How sad for you. You wanted sanctuary for him; that’s what you got.”

Morathis grabs Faximil’s arm, his fingers digging into the silk robe. “Then tell me where he is. I won’t believe you until I’ve spoken with him.”

Faximil is unconcerned. He ignores the grip on his arm and clears the holounit off of his desk and returns to the preserved stone tablet he’d been examining. When Morathis still has a hold on him five minutes later, he says, “I don’t see how your lack of belief is my problem.”

“You kidnapped him,” Morathis says, emotion starting to bleed into his voice.

“I gave him sanctuary, as you so rudely demanded. I should have killed him out of spite for your insolence. Perhaps then you would care to ask for a favor.” Faximil gives his arm a light shake and uses the invisible fingers of the Force to rip Morathis’ hand off.

“I have no reason to believe you, Sith.”

“And I had no reason to give him sanctuary. I suppose you should have thought this through first, hmm?” The Sith isn’t wearing his clawed gloves. He runs his fingers over the tablet in something like a caress.

“I killed those people for you. A Sith among them. That’s reason enough. Now tell me where he is.”

The Sith keeps his eyes focused on the tablet. His voice sounds distracted. “It’s not a very good sanctuary if just anyone can demand its location, now is it? People have sold out their blood for far less than learning the location of a secret Forcer sanctuary. If you truly wanted Tava protected, you would be grateful I don’t give out any details.”

“Don’t you call him that,” Morathis snarls and snaps his hand out to grab the Sith again, but Faximil is too quick.

The Sith turns in his seat and catches Morathis’ wrist in a punishing grip belied by his thin fingers. The bored, uncaring expression is gone from Faximil’s face, leaving the glare of an annoyed predator. “Tava owes  _ nothing _ to Seris and less to Arimo. You’d be better-served considering why you let them brand you than you are bothering me.”

Though Faximil is still seated at his desk, his presence seems to tower over Morathis. Yellow flickers in his eyes as he says, “You’re at the limit of my patience. Get out of my sight.”

“This isn’t over, Sith.”

“In the Force, nothing ever is.”

 


	2. Facade

House Arimo would never ask, so Morathis bluntly informs his parents of Tava’s fate, though he uses words he doesn’t believe about a secret Forcer sanctuary. Of course, he only does this _after_ carefully modifying reports going into the Ascendancy databases on troublesome Sith that need minding. Lord Faximil Sa’alle now looks perfectly powerful enough to be a problem while not having the political position to offer anything worthwhile.

The perfect, silent exile for the misbehaving, eldest son. House Arimo would be rid of Morathis’ troublesome actions and _morals_ about not killing off family members. Either Morathis would be killed by Lord Faximil, entirely possible as much as he denies it, or he would make something of the Sith’s operations and be promoted to a real position. The whole thing takes two agonizing months of planning, slicing and waiting, but he eventually receives his orders from the Ascendancy and returns to Dromund Kaas.

His appointed quarters are hidden away in what the Imperials clearly think is an alien ghetto. However, he can easily see through the facade the Ascendancy created. The apartments are functional, if utilitarian, but nothing worse than he expected. If Faximil’s records are accurate, the Sith barely spends any time on world to begin with, so Morathis wastes none of his own exploring and instead goes straight to the Citadel complex.

Except Faximil isn’t _in_.

Morathis stares at the empty desk and wants to scowl, but restrains himself. With as much poise as he can muster, not that anyone can see him, he pulls out his datapad and reviews the orders again, but no, the date, time and location are correct, so the Sith is snubbing him on purpose.

When the urge to stomp his feet and grind his teeth passes, Morathis calls the contact number listed with the assignment. He doesn’t know why he expected Faximil to be the one that answered, but he’s still surprised to see a stiffly professional Imperial soldier looking back at him.

With no ado, Morathis says, “I’m at Faximil’s office.”

“Are you, now?” The Imperial looks down at his own datapad. “Ah, I see, you were given the listing for his official office. He never uses that.”

Morathis bites back his argument. He’d found Faximil in residence twice without scouting ahead of time. The odds of such a coincidence happening… His mouth presses into a firm line. _No flame-streaked coincidences for the Afflicted, are there?_

In the end, Morathis says nothing aloud. He simply stares at the Imperial until he’s sent the correct address. He uses the speeder ride across the capital city to collect himself. If he keeps letting Faximil have the upper hand, he’ll never see Tava again and he _won’t_ allow that.

Faximil’s real office is a large, nearly open-air thing attached to an Imperial garrison. It’s not surprising he has a garrison, most Sith Lords have nominal control of at least a hundred soldiers, but it’s strange that Faximil would acknowledge them. While Faximil’s desk takes up the center of the room, there’s a smaller desk off to the side where the Imperial who answered his call sits.

The Sith himself is wearing his disgusting, grey mask and sitting with his back straight and nothing visibly in front of him. There are no other chairs in the office, though there are obvious divots in the rug in front of Faximil’s desk where they are supposed to be, but Morathis refuses to acknowledge any of the insults. He proudly strides in until he’s in front of Faximil’s desk.

“Lord Faximil Sa’alle, I am Arimo’rathi’seris, your Ascendancy liaison,” Morathis says. He bows precisely as low as required and no more. He doesn’t wait for acknowledgement before straightening himself.

The Sith stares at Morathis silently. His eyes are simple black pits in the mask, but Morathis isn’t intimidated. For five minutes of near deafening silence, they remain like that until Faximil’s Imperial makes a loud, annoyed sound. Something across between a sigh and a groan.

“Alright Fox, that’s enough. You agreed we weren’t going to play these bloody games with this one,” the Imperial says.

Morathis feels his body stiffen involuntarily as he waits for the outburst from the Sith.

Instead of throwing lightning or merely sending out a silent suffocation, Faximil removes his mask and tosses it on his desk. As it makes contact, a mess of datapads and knick-knacks appear from under an illusion. “There is a balance between formality and insolence, Ivan.”

“We got nothing done for the _three months_ the last one was here, My Lord. You were just as stir-crazy as I by the end. This one doesn’t have the influence to be a real threat and you’ve already established a connection with his mind if he thinks about getting clever,” the Imperial replies.

The words send a chill down Morathis’ spine. He hadn’t found any records of a member of the Ascendancy so much as _speaking_ with any member of House Sa’alle at large, let alone Lord Faximil. Further, Morathis shouldn’t have any records in the Empire. This soldier shouldn’t have any idea of his influence or lack thereof.

Faximil frowns, but it’s not the angry scowl of a bothered predator. He says, “Fine,” and then snaps his fingers. The chairs reappear in front of his desk and Morathis barely holds in a flinch because he knows based on the marks on the rug that he’s standing where one of the chairs should have been.

But he manages to maintain his composure, visibly at least, and takes a seat. He forces a cocky grin onto his face. “So, Fox is it?”

\---

According to the Ascendancy, liaising with a Sith is like babysitting an extremely dangerous toddler. Faximil spends most of his time flying around the galaxy collecting relics, so aside from talking down enraged Reclamation Service officers Morathis has minimal fires to put out. The relics come in only two flavors: primitive, etched tablets and datacrons. Morathis is almost impressed by how many extraneous vases, helmets and tattered scraps of fabric the Sith collects to hide his true goals.

What information these contain, however, Faximil keeps to himself. He spends long nights on his ship and in his office pouring over the tablets or engrossed in the datacrons. Morathis watches him like a hawk for the first week before deciding that either there was nothing more to it, or Faximil was using the Force to hide his real actions. Either way, Morathis’ spends his time reconciling account books and ledgers and correlating them with travel logs.

It’s slow, tedious work that’s already been done by a droid, but Morathis has sliced enough Imperial droids to know better than to trust them for anything as important as finding Tava. Faximil’s constant smirks and barbed comments make it clear that he knows exactly why Morathis works with him. And equally clear that he won’t reveal anything.

Two weeks in, just when Morathis has finally sunk his teeth into a ridiculously long expense report, Captain Mardh, the stiff-necked Imperial that had the stones to order a Sith around, knocks on Morathis’ insultingly cheap desk.

“Word of advice, Arimo, if you’d care to hear it.”

Morathis scans the office and frowns when he realizes that Faximil somehow left without him noticing. He bites his tongue until the pain lets him control his response. “You’re welcome to give it, Captain.”

The captain pulls a chair up next to Morathis’ desk and takes a seat. “His Lordship would be less hostile if you called him Fox.”

Still looking at his datapad, Morathis lifts both eyebrows. “Aside from the day I signed on, you’ve called him nothing but My Lord.”

“He doesn’t like being called _Sith_ ,” Mardh says. “It’s barely above Sa’alle for him.”

Morathis waves his left hand dismissively. “It’s what he is. Besides, I’m certainly not going to address him by his root name.”

“He doesn’t have a root name.”

“His _given_ name, then. Call it what you like; I won’t use it.”

Mardh scoffs. “I knew what you meant. He doesn’t _have_ a given name. Before he was made Lord Faximil, he was just Sa’alle.”

At that, Morathis finally lowers his datapad and meets the Imperial’s eyes. “Then what’s Fox?”

“What his friends call him.”

Morathis just laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Would a proper Ascendancy Chiss consider Sa'alle his root name? Who knows! Who cares? Not me!


	3. Significance

The most frustrating part of liaising with Faximil is that Mardh is  _ always _ at the Sith’s side. Morathis can’t interrogate the Sith with someone else there to witness it and learn about Tava. Even after two months in the open air office, Morathis isn’t sure if this is the anomalous state or if Mardh has always been joined to Faximil at the hip. At first, he thinks they’re lovers. In the relative privacy of his office, where Faximil has made it clear Morathis is beneath his notice, he is free with familiar touches to the back of the man’s neck or his arm. He also exclusively calls Mardh by his given name, something made even more jarring by Mardh’s strict formality of ‘My Lord.’

But the Imperial doesn’t return the intimacy. There’s some affection between the two, but it seems strictly platonic. Though, Morathis isn’t entirely sure. He’s an analyst. He knows when his conclusions are biased and the bias for this one beats him over the head most nights. Mardh may be attractive enough, with his baby face and tailored uniform, but Morathis is convinced the only thing keeping Faximil from being molested in the street is his bloody mask.

It’s only the rage and hate in Morathis’ heart that keeps him from making an unadvisable proposition. He’s always thought hating someone made them uglier. Maybe the weeks in the open air office and travelling and seeing the Sith do nothing more evil than threaten people have weakened Morathis’ resolve. He knows victims often come to sympathize with their captors. He rubs his temples and tries to dismiss the tangled thoughts.

“Headache?” Faximil asks. He’s somehow approached Morathis without him noticing, but he’s already too annoyed for this to add to his frustration.

Morathis wants to growl or snarl back some scathing, yet witty, remark, but he’s not going to give the Sith the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, so he remains silent with his eyes trained on the datapad in front of him, even if he can’t read it. In his peripheral vision, he sees the Sith remove a glove before the bare hand is coming right for him. Morathis barely avoids flinching when it touches him.

Faximil’s hand is warm on his forehead. It takes Morathis a moment to realize he’s not imagining the slight tingle where they’re in contact. His headache eases and after that the knots in his shoulders loosen, though he’s still tight with tension. When he’s sure his voice won’t quiver, Morathis says, “Don’t touch me, Sith.”

“As you like,” Faximil says. He removes his hand, but doesn’t return to his desk. “Has it occured to you that all of your anger and frustration feed my strength?”

“I was under the impression it was all intentional on your part,” Morathis replies.

“One would think you’d practice meditation and calming techniques to scuttle my efforts.”

“It wasn’t worth it after I did the cost-benefit analysis.”

Faximil laughs and it takes most of Morathis’ will not to turn and see how the expression shapes his face. He’s here for a reason and that’s not to get the Sith out of his robes.

The Sith runs his hand along the edge of Morathis’ desk and an illusion falls away, revealing the desk to be of perfectly serviceable quality, rather than the crumbling wreck it had appeared to be. Faximil says, “You could at least pretend to be surprised.”

“I am here to further the Ascendancy’s interests: nothing more, nothing less.”

“Ivan isn’t here. You can be honest.”

Morathis doesn’t look around to confirm. He doesn’t turn his head at all. “If you don’t give me my brother back soon, I will rip your intestines out through your nose.”

“Tava is safe. You need not worry about him,” Fox says. His voice sounds almost sincere. There’s only a trace of his usual, self-satisfied arrogance. If Morathis at all trusted the Sith, he might give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I need to worry until I can touch him and see that he’s safe with my own eyes.”

Faximil doesn’t respond immediately. He continues to stand over Morathis’ desk. When he does speak, he sounds like a  _ man _ and not a Sith. “I don’t think you understand the level of security required to keep such a place safe.”

“No, Sith.  _ You _ don’t understand what it’s like to care about someone other than yourself.”

\---

Morathis suppresses the twitch in his eyebrow, but allows his nostrils to flare. Of course the Sith would want to traipse off to some pet colony right when Morathis acquires a droid capable of translating Ancient Sith. Morathis can’t access the datacrons and Faximil keeps the tablets locked up in heavy chests with biolocks and probably also curses. His only hope of figuring out whatever the Sith is researching is to memorize the symbols and recreate them later and he can’t do that if he can’t see the tablets.

He stands next to Mardh and behind Faximil’s left shoulder at the helm of the Sith’s ship. If he were Afflicted, he would be burning people with his gaze. Faximil is unaffected by continued presence. More leverage is required if Morathis is going to make Faximil return his brother. It took him two weeks and the last of his meagre savings to acquire the droid and now he won’t be able to use it until the eternal ice melts.

It feels like steam is pouring out of Morathis’ ears by the time the ship lands and they depart for the airlock. In a rare fit of peevishness he actually voices, Morathis says, “Forgetting your mask, Sith?”

“Not here,” Mardh says.

“Never here,” Faximil confirms.

Neither elaborates and it only serves to stoke the rare fire in Morathis’ chest. The loud hissing from the airlock is almost enough to make him snap out another comment, but he’s not half-way through the risk-reward analysis when he finds himself paralyzed by the Force. At the same moment, he notices someone hurtling towards him and he wastes a thought on hoping the Sith dies horribly before praying Tava actually is safe.

“Rathi, you’re here!”

The Force paralysis disappears, but Morathis is frozen in shock. Mechanically, he tilts his head down to look at his precious, baby brother wrapped around his middle. A cruel thought teases his mind that he would have reflexively attacked Tava if the Sith hadn’t held him back. But he refuses to let that linger. Instead, he lets months of pent up, terrified tears spill out as he hugs his brother. 

He holds the little boy tightly and then pulls back, putting his hands on his brother’s cheeks to examine his face. “Are you okay? Are they treating you well?”

Tava nods and jumps up, grabbing Morathis around the shoulders so he has to pick him up. “It’s great here! I get to go to  _ school _ again! And Auntie and Uncle said I could have an akkdog if I got good marks. They don’t know much about Chiss.”

Morathis can’t wipe the tears off his face with both hands holding his brother up, but he couldn’t care less about his appearance. His heart pounds nearly out of his chest and he has to clear his throat several times before he can speak again. “Auntie and Uncle?”

Tava nods, his short, black hair brushing Morathis’ cheek. “Uh huh. They’re mirialan.” He stretches one arm out and points across the hangar to an older mirialan couple looking on fondly.

Morathis rubs his wet cheeks against his shoulders, heedless of the way the uniform buttons scrape his raw skin. He’s certain he still looks a mess, but he’s not going to put Tava down. “Right, well, protocol says you’ll have to introduce us.”


	4. Repayment

In the center of the capital city, the Armandes live in a spacious flat where Tava has his own room. The flat has light curtains on the windows and soft paintings on the walls. Most are landscapes of the same field and mountain range from slightly different angles, but a few are clearly childish depictions of what might be mountains or maybe a city skyline. 

When Tava notices Morathis trying to decipher them, he pipes up, “I made those! Auntie put them up with Donovan's.”

“I can tell you worked very hard on them,” Morathis says. He lets his brother give him a tour of the flat. Eventually they settle down in the boy’s room and Morathis listens attentively as Tava recites the elaborate history behind each doll and action figure. No proper House in the Ascendancy would ever allow a child to have toys that weren’t strictly educational, so it makes Morathis’ chest ache like bad joints in winter to see his brother light up over such simple things.

Though it seems as if only twenty minutes have passed, some three hours later Lunia Armandes, Tava’s ‘Auntie’ comes in and calls them to eat lunch. Morathis spends most of the meal silently watching the interactions between his brother and the Armandes. They’re very affectionate with him, patting his arm or ruffling his hair as the conversation goes on. Morathis wants to flinch at the very notion of so many foreign touches, but Tava smiles brightly at the attention.

After the dishes are cleared away, Tava is instructed to sit at a small table in the living room to do his schoolwork. Morathis stays seated at the kitchen table, so he can stare at his brother without disturbing him.

Lunia sets a steaming cup of caf near Morathis’ arm and then takes the seat at his side. “He’s a good kid.”

“I’m grateful he lived long enough for me to learn that,” Morathis says.

“His Lordship told us what happened,” Lunia says. She takes a slow sip of her own caf.

“Did he? Personally?” Morathis tilts his head towards her, though he doesn’t take his eyes off of Tava.

“Of course. If they’re under ten - well, for humans - he handles everything himself. Said he likes to be able to Sense if there’s a problem. Most of the kids, well, by the time they’re coming here, they know how to hide things.”

Morathis considers this with a frown. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to live here? You and your husband don’t seem- Sensitive.”

Lunia gestures to the landscapes. “Our Donovan was. He didn’t even make it to the Sith Academy. They didn’t want him to taint it with his alien blood.” The woman’s voice is tinted with light sadness, but no bitterness.

“I’m sorry. I take it his… gift… affected his artistic ability?”

“Yes. These are from when he was your brother’s age,” she pauses to smile at Morathis. “Relatively, of course. We sold the later ones to stay out of slavery. Then Lord Faximil found us and offered us the chance to help children like our Donovan. It was an easy decision.”

“Is it the same for everyone here?” Morathis asks. He’s updating his mental dossier for Faximil, but the information doesn’t want to reconcile.

“There are too many of us for that. And Olkin II is older than he is. I always assumed he adopted the colony from his mentor.”

Morathis shakes his head. “Whomever he took the project from, it wasn’t his Master.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Even here, we don’t talk about it much. We get visitors sometimes. Mandalorians, spacers… It’s good to be in the habit of just never mentioning it.”

“I knew he hid Sensitive children, but I had no idea it was… Something this big.”

Lunia laughs. “What did you think he did with them? Children need families, friends, school, hospital…”

Morathis surprises himself with his own honesty. “I wasn’t actually sure it was real. But I needed some hope that Tava…”

“You’re a good young man, Morathis,” Lunia says. “We’ll look after Tava. You look after His Lordship.”

This is finally enough to make Morathis look away. He stares at the woman, but her expression is painfully serious. “ _ Me? _ Look after  _ him?” _

“I’m an old woman, now. I’ve seen his type a lot. You can’t shine that brightly without burning out.”

Morathis doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s no polite way to say she’s insane because shining brightly doesn’t fit anywhere in his picture of the Sith, unless it was a reference to his looks, which Morathis strongly doubted. In the end he just made a non-committal sound over his mug.

\---

The Armandes offer to let him sleep on their couch, but Morathis is too tangled up in warring emotions to want the guilt from taking any more of their hospitality. A speeder takes him in to the capital complex and the pilot droid is mercifully silent for the duration. When he enters the residential building, he’s further spared speaking with anyone by Faximil’s staff directing him to his room unprompted. Except that when he opens the door, he discovers it’s the  _ Sith’s _ room he was directed to.

The receiving room is furnished warmly with burgundy-upholstered furniture, though the cream-colored walls are blank. Faximil lounges on a chaise with a datacron suspended a few centimeters in front of his face. His long, auburn hair is tied back in a low ponytail, but the most jarring element of the scene is that the Sith is wearing only a black undershirt and simple trousers.

In his fantasies, Faximil had nothing but smooth skin under his robes, even if this made more sense. The Sith doesn’t bother acknowledging Morathis, so he has no qualms staring at the slice of skin revealed by his shirt riding up. Morathis can see just a hint of hard abdominal muscles before the datacron drops out of the air and lands on the rug with a dull thud.

“I see you finally remembered you have a job, Arimo,” Faximil says.

Something about the words or the condescending tone or the arrogant tilt of the Sith’s head or the use of his horrible family name or some combination of all of that and more is enough to finally snap the last thread of restraint Morathis has spent all day clinging onto.

Without thinking, Morathis lunges at him. “You burning bastard!”

Faximil leaps to his feet and dodges the first punch easily. The next two he blocks with his forearms. At first his expression is cooly amused in that oily, Sith way, but then his eyes widen and his face transforms. Every part of his face screams emotions, from the lines around his eyes to the set of his jaw.

The crushing  _ humanity _ on display takes the fire from Morathis’ heart and sets his blood aflame.

“Me? I’m the bastard? When I risk my life and worse to save your brother? This is the thanks I get?” Fox asks. 

“My life isn’t a kriffing game! I spent weeks neck-deep in Olkin II’s records! You should have told me Tava was here!” Morathis shouts. He continues to strike out at Fox, forcing him across the room.

“You wouldn’t have believed me. I could have told you a star was hot and you would have had to check three satellites before you considered it a possibility.” Fox’s skin is flushed under his tan and the pink spreads even to the visible parts of his collarbones.

“Oh, and I was just imagining the flaming illusions on the chairs? On my desk? You antagonized me on purpose!”

“You tried to kill me.”

Morathis grabs the thin collar of Fox’s shirt and shoves him the last few centimeters until his back is against the wall. He leans in close to Fox’s face. His voice is low and sharp. “And I remember you turning it back on me just fine.”

“Oh ho, is that what you want, Morathis?”

Morathis grabs Fox by the hair and says, “Shut the fuck up.” He doesn’t give the other man time to respond before pulling him into a hard, punishing kiss. Fox’s mouth is the sweetest fire until he has the gall to turn away and laugh. It highlights his already beautiful face, but Morathis was  _ using _ that mouth.

Morathis presses him into the wall with all of his weight and jerks Fox’s face back around. With a wordless growl, Morathis bites his bottom lip before kissing Fox’s open mouth and,  _ oh, _ the taste is just as intoxicating as the stupid romance holos always made it out to be. He releases Fox’s collar and slips his hand under the black shirt, feeling the way the hard muscles jump under his touch. He digs his nails into Fox’s back when he tries to pull away again and instead of whatever words the Sith was going to say, a groan escapes him.

Surely to get some kind of revenge, Fox wraps his arm around Morathis’ back and pulls their hips together. All Morathis feels is fire as sensation overwhelms him and he gasps. Somehow, he manages to press back in before Fox can run his mouth, but some part in the back of his mind is wailing in alarm. 

The mechanics of sex are basic. Kiss and touch erogenous zones gratuitously, lube, insert tab A into slot B, deal with the second tab A. Simple. Morathis just always expected to have more brain power than  _ none  _ when he finally got around to it. But he’s starting to believe that nothing is ever going to be simple where Fox is involved.

And when Fox bites just under his ear, he can’t really bring himself to care.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like in the Origins AU, names are critically important. Note how it changes from Faximil to Fox mid-chapter here. So you can assume any strangeness is intentional.


	5. Decisions

The ceiling is painted a slightly lighter color of cream. One of the soft blue lamps needs a new capacitor. Fox’s sheets are knock offs, not real kilik silk. And Morathis has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do now. He’d cleaned up, but his legs were still shaking, so he’d laid back down on Fox’s bed and now the Sith’s back from his own wash and clearly preparing to sleep.

What is the protocol for after a rough, angry kriff with an enemy? Cuddling is certainly out, no matter how much his chilled body wants to feel the fire again. The optimal solution would have been to leave while Fox was washing, but it’s too late for that now. He can leave _now,_ now, but he’d only put his pants back on and his uniform is scattered across at least two rooms and there is no chance of him being able to rummage around for all of it without Fox trying to _talk_ to him.

He shivers, even though he should be warm under the blankets. He supposes the next best option is to sprint to his own room in his pants and simply wear a second uniform tomorrow, but Morathis has _no idea_ where his assigned room is or if his things are even in it, so that plan would require speaking to at least one person, which is out of the question.

Fox yawns loudly because the man wouldn’t know subtlety if it stabbed him in the chest. He stretches his arms and shakes the bed more than a herd of rampaging brontos as he settles into a comfortable position. Really, the mattress quality is complete shite if Morathis is jostled this much.

When the shaking stops, Morathis risks a glance at Fox, who is mercifully facing the opposite direction. But looking is a mistake because it lets Morathis see the shallow scratches he’d left on Fox’s back. He considers just _how_ unthinkable staying to cuddle is and again concludes that the answer is _too_ unthinkable.

“Don’t forget to turn out the lights,” Fox says, as if Morathis is some lover he’d wooed into his bed and not just an angry colleague who’d tried to exorcise his overwrought emotions with a kriff.

 _It didn’t even work,_ Morathis thinks, again staring at Fox’s back with his emotions roiling in his chest. It’s completely mad, but his mouth is watering and he feels compelled to pull back the mess the kriff made of Fox’s hair and bite and suck on the man’s neck until the feelings go away or he dies. He’s fairly certain death is better than the shame of the alternative. Even in the throes of puberty he hadn’t felt this out of control of his thoughts and emotions.

Though he never gave his hand the command, it is nevertheless wrapped around Fox’s hair and pulling it away from the man’s neck. Morathis flashes hot and cold a hundred times in a second before he just sends the shutdown command to every part of his body. It doesn’t listen. Instead his mouth decides to say, “This is a disgrace. I don’t understand why Mardh lets you prance around with this womprat’s nest of a mane.”

Fox chuckles and the sound is low and so warm, Morathis feels like he has the sun on his face. Fox turns his face into the pillow to give Morathis full access to said disgraceful mane. His voice is deeper from the sleep creeping into it. “If you have a solution, you’re more than welcome to it.”

And now Morathis has a goal. He has something concrete and solid that he can do. He gets out of the bed and as he searches for a hairbrush he takes mental notes of where all of his clothes are. He sits back on the bed with far more grace than Fox ever could, barely even shifting the other man. He gathers up all of Fox’s hair and carefully removes the tie before brushing it out. In the dim, blue light, his hair looks like a dark swath of color providing enough contrast to make Fox’s skin seem to glow.

While at first Fox made low, contented noises, by the time Morathis has untangled the snares and unbound the knots, the Sith is fast asleep. Morathis gathers the hair together for a ponytail, but freezes at the feel of ice on the back of Fox’s neck. With a frown, Morathis pulls the hair out of the way and leans in for a better look in the light. There, at the end of Fox’s spine is a small, black prick-mark from Morathis’ cursed knife.

No matter how long Morathis leaves his thumb on the mark, it doesn’t warm, but even touching it as he is, Fox doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t stir, at least. With a shake, Morathis pushes the thought of the cursed scar away for later. He’s just about to secure the tail with the tie when Morathis realizes the problem.

He shows no signs of _waking_ , but Fox is far from a still sleeper. His legs shift and his arms twitch and he’d moved his head several times over the course of the brushing, only leaving it in place because of Morathis’ grip on his hair. There’s no way a ponytail will last the night with _that_ nonsense. He casts back through his memories until he remembers the simple three-strand braid he used to use to keep computer cables in order. Though Morathis’ hands move surely, the resulting plait is lopsided with strands already fraying out on the sides.

Morathis makes an annoyed sound, but ties off the plait regardless. He presses his eyes tightly closed against the gritty need for sleep and slips back into a lying position.  He’s only just made himself comfortable on his back when he remembers the lights. Grudgingly, he lifts his right hand out of the blankets and snaps his fingers loudly until the audio switch catches the sound and the lights go out.

\---

Morathis wakes up warm, comfortable and, above all else, relaxed. Knowing, really knowing that Tava is safe removed the weight of two worlds from his shoulders and he hasn’t felt this at peace since it became obvious Tava was Afflicted in the first place.  Which makes it even stranger that he can’t seem to move. Reluctant to wake up and ruin his peaceful lassitude, Morathis closes his eyes more tightly and presses his face harder into his pillow.

_Oh._

His own hair is tightly cropped and regularly groomed, so there’s really no reason he should have a face full of hair. Morathis experimentally tries to move his limbs, but he may as well have not bothered. His right arm is numb and trapped under his pillow. His left is slung over Fox’s waist, which would have been easy enough to fix except that Fox is apparently comfortable clutching onto his wrist with an iron grip in sleep. Morathis’ legs are even more of a lost cause, twisted up with Fox’s in a way that shouldn’t be possible with the hinge nature of knee joints.

Reworking the cost-benefit analysis for learning meditation techniques wars with figuring out how to both extract himself from this ridiculous embrace with Fox and end the morning with an embrace of an entirely different nature. He wants to rub his temples until his brain exorcises all of its silly ideas, but his arms are still trapped, so he can only clench the muscles in his thighs to stave off his body’s physical response.

Then Fox starts shifting around because the insufferable Afflicted can’t do anything subtly, even sleep, and even though Morathis should be capitalizing on the way the grip on his wrist loosens, he’s busy scolding his recalcitrant body about how inappropriate it is to kriff his assignment. He needs to extract himself, get dressed, find his room and then pretend none of this ever happened. He knows exactly where each piece of his uniform is. It shouldn’t take even two minutes to-

 _Why didn’t I just get dressed and leave instead of finding that flaming hairbrush?_ Morathis is still mentally chiding himself for his abject stupidity when he hears the bioscanner on the door beep approval and then the door is opening and he thinks he might just die of shame. Liaisons are fine, _expected,_ even, but only so long as they’re discreet. Being seen by Fox’s people is _not_ discreet.

_But he’s an ash-ridden Sith. He probably kriffs people all of the time. And he’s between me and the door. It’s fine. This is fine. I can salvage this._

“My Lord, you have a meeting in thirty minutes.”

 _No, I’m definitely going to die of shame. There’s not a chance in the frozen wastes that Mardh would have missed seeing my uniform,_ Morathis thinks even as he does his best to make his body limp and his breathing deep and even.

Fox stirs and yawns and squeezes Morathis’s wrist, again as if he’s some hard-won lover, and makes a few sleepy sounds before saying only, “No, I don’t.”

“I’m afraid you do.”

“I don’t schedule meetings his early. I can see the chrono from here.”

Mardh’s tone is patient, as it usually is with Fox. “It’s with the agricultural committee. You agreed to having the meeting at their convenience.”

“Did I agree, or did you agree for me?” Fox asks. He strokes his fingers down Morathis’ arm and then gently extricates himself.

“Does it matter, My Lord?”

“Any other Sith would kill you for this, Ivan.”

Morathis stays perfectly still as he listens to Fox dress and bicker with Mardh. Eventually, the captain leaves without commenting on the Chiss in the room and Morathis breathes a little easier. Twenty minutes after Mardh’s intrusion, Morathis can hear Fox walking out of his bedroom, though the Sith pauses at the door to his receiving room.

“It’s to the left and then the second door on the left.”

There’s no one else in the room. No one else Fox could possibly be talking to. Morathis continues to feign sleep.

Fox isn’t fooled. “Morathis.”

Morathis _could_ yawn and stretch and pretend to have only woken up at the sound of his name, but can’t see the point when Fox has surely known the entire time because the galaxy isn’t a fair and just place. “...What is?”

“Your things.” And then Fox is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a rather long time chuckling while prepping this chapter for posting.


	6. Pretenses

“You look a lot better today.”

Morathis glances away from Tava to look at Lunia. He gives her a short nod and turns back. “It took a while to set in that… He’s really safe.”

“As safe as he can be, with a war on.”

As he considers that comment, Morathis touches the gold House Arimo pin on his lapel. “You think the Republic may attack here?”

“Possibly. It’s far more likely the Empire will come strip the land for resources.” Lunia says. She sighs and pours herself a fresh cup of tea. “Whomever picked the location wanted us to be self-sufficient to minimize the number of outside traders coming on world, but it’s a double-edged sword.”

“I’ve been doing forensics on…” Morathis trails off. Fox’s name lingers in his mouth, even more than the taste of him. “The Sith’s accounts. There’s nothing in them to suggest it’s worth the Empire’s time to come here. And I was looking for something to investigate.”

“That’s good to know. More tea, dear?”

“Please.” Morathis lets the familiar clink from the china settle over him. He can see Tava busily reading on a datapad with his foot tapping the air in some silent rhythm. With their parents, Tava would have been, and frequently was, punished from such lack of control. 

Lunia sets the cup in front of Morathis and then says, “I hope he warms up to you before you have to leave with His Lordship.”

Morathis blinks owlishly at his brother before looking at Lunia. “Warms up to _ me?” _ He can hardly fathom the suggestion. Had she not seen the uninhibited way Tava tackled him when he arrived? Did she not see the significance behind Tava’s impromptu hugs every time Morathis was in reach?

Lunia brushes a stray lock of hair from her face and nods. She points to Tava’s bouncing foot. “Usually the pillows join in.”

A cold ache settles in Morathis’ chest and he looks back at his brother. “I should have known he was hiding it from me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re the only family he has left. He just doesn’t want to disappoint you.”

“He could never-” Morathis cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I should have done more to reassure him.”

“You’re his brother, not his parent. You did your best and you brought him somewhere he can be himself without fear.”

“He’s my responsibility.”

“He doesn’t have to be. Not anymore.”

\---

The moment Morathis returns to the residential complex, Mardh gives him a significant look and then silently leads him into a small office. Mardh closes the door firmly behind Morathis and then takes a seat behind the desk. The office itself is bland and utilitarian with white walls broken up only by monitors and holodisplays. The desk is a solid, faux-wooden thing with a spartan lack of adornment and personal effects. For all appearances, the room could be an empty spare, but Morathis has known Mardh long enough to assume it’s his.

Once Morathis has taken a seat across the desk, Mardh says, “Don’t mistake our motivation for letting you learn the secrets of Olkin II as altruism.”

“I assumed there was an ulterior motive, yes,” Morathis responds, confused but grateful Mardh isn’t opening the conversation with talk of Fox.

“Under other circumstances, there are ways to attend to our business here without you being any the wiser.”

Morathis doubts this, but says nothing.

“You’re expected to build a personal rapport with Outpost Palanquin. With good reason, your people are hesitant to answer an Imperial distress call, but we cannot afford that here.” 

“The closest garrison is Fort Allescen. And their force is more than twice that of Outpost Palanquin. I appreciate the vote of confidence in our skill, but this seems an unnecessary measure.” Morathis studies Mardh’s reaction to his words carefully. Mardh is the best Imperial military analyst he’s ever met. Surely he already knows this.

“Lord Hyal the Elder took control of Fort Allescen when His Lordship took over the colony here,” Mardh says. His eyes have the slightest wrinkling at the corners to show his annoyance.

“Ah. I’ll see what I can do, but they will be even more hesitant knowing of the rivalry between Hyal the Elder and Fox.” The name slips out of his mouth before Morathis can stop it. While he’s careful to show no outward sign of slip that might simply draw more attention to it, he wants the chair to sink into the floor.

“Good. I trust I don’t have to impress the importance of this on you.”

Morathis nods. That seems to be the end of the conversation, so Morathis stands and makes a move towards the door.

“One more thing, Arimo.”

Morathis doesn’t turn the doorknob, but neither does he remove his hand from it. Mentally, he braces himself for… For what, he’s not sure. A warning? Encouragement? Advice? He’s not sure which option is worst. He clears his throat. “Yes?”

“We need you in attendance tomorrow. I’ve already informed the Armandes, but you may wish to send your brother a message.”

“Thank you. I will do so first thing in the morning.” Morathis escapes before Mardh changes his mind and decides to say anything about that morning. He plans to go into his quarters, think about his life choices and then plan a course of action for winning over the staff at Outpost Palanquin. The commander is a Safis, so that might be a good place to start. However, his feet don’t seem to care for his plan, as they walk through Fox’s open door. 

Fox is lounging on the same chaise, with the same trousers and thin undershirt. The only difference is the light bruise Morathis left on his collarbone. 

The sight may as well have drenched him in gasoline and tossed a match. Before he can retreat, his mouth blurts out, “Mardh said you need me tomorrow.” Somehow, Morathis’ tone is even and professional, belying the firestorm just under his skin.

After a moment, Fox turns his head and blinks up at Morathis. He plucks the datacron out of the air and sets it on his coffee table before standing. “Yes, we’re meeting with the bursar tomorrow.”

Morathis licks his lips and steps further into the room. He hears the door shut behind him at a small flick of Fox’s wrist. “You think he’s falsifying his reports?”

“I know he is. If he wasn’t, you would have been suspicious of Olkin II. However, the population here is growing and soon he won’t have the resources to doctor all of the forms by hand.” Fox walks forward until they’re close enough to touch, his strides as smooth and languid as any jungle cat.

“You want me to make the modifications?”

“I want you to make a system that does it automatically.” Though they’re the same height, Fox seems to loom over Morathis.

“Why not have Mardh do it?” Morathis asks. He swallows around his suddenly-dry throat.

“He’s good at interpreting data. Less so at making data give a certain interpretation.”

Morathis nods, but moving his head makes his gaze catch on the bruise on Fox’s collarbone and he’s suddenly swallowing for a different reason. He looks back to Fox’s eyes, blue and clear like no real Sith’s ever could be. “I’ll take care of it.”

They stand in unmoving silence for an entire minute before Fox says, barely above a whisper, “Was there anything else?”

Morathis doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how the bridge the space between them when he’s not shouting and lunging in anger. They aren’t lovers. It’s not as simple as tilting his head towards Fox’s bedroom with a nod. “Did you put any illusions on me?”

Fox’s eyebrows shoot up. “Not recently.”

Excellent. Perfect. Something to be angry about to explain the fire in his veins, “Not- When? Why?”

“What are you on about? I had the illusion on your desk just the other day. You were cross then; you can’t act like it’s a surprise now.” Fox looks shocked, confused, but isn’t mirroring Morathis’ passion the way he had the night before.

“That’s not what I asked. I meant an illusion to hide  _ me _ from sight, not to fool mine.”

“Why would I?”

“This morning,” Morathis says, the fire searing his face.

Fox shakes his head, as if the very notion is preposterous. “I’m not ashamed of taking you to bed; you’re attractive and brilliant.”

The words crash into Morathis like the tide, but do nothing for the heat in his veins. Fox’s tone, it’s like he can’t even fathom why he would hide Morathis. Like he’d be just as pleased to kiss him full on the mouth in the middle of the Citadel.

But Fox just continues speaking blithely on, as if he hasn’t said something impossible. “If you’re worried about discretion, don’t be. Ivan’s better at keeping secrets than I am.”

“You need to stop talking,” Morathis forces out in half a breath, which is all he can spare before he  _ has _ to press his mouth to Fox’s,  _ has _ to pull their bodies together,  _ has _ to grab the impossible man by the hair. He’s completely lost the plot.

But Fox’s tongue is in his mouth and he doesn’t care.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rathi is not good at this feelings thing.


	7. Environmental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mardh finally has that conversation Morathias was dreading.

Leaving Olkin II is like coming out of a fever dream. Leaving Tava behind plants a seed of anxiety in his chest, even though Morthis knows the Armandes will care for him like their own son. Faximil dons his mask the moment he sets foot on his destroyer. Morathis watches the Sith’s back disappear down the hallway as he retreats to his office to handle a barrage of holocalls he left waiting while he handled planetary concerns.

Morathis is at a loss of what to do. Now that he doesn’t need to furiously investigate every place the Sith has ever even thought about to find Tava, he has nothing to do. He’d sent his report to the Ascendancy through Outpost Palanquin. Eventually, he makes his way to the galley and has the droids prepare a tea service. He takes it into the lounge reserved for only Faxmil’s highest ranking officers and prepares himself a cup. 

He’s still staring into his teacup when Mardh enters and takes a seat across from him. The stiff Imperial prepares his own cup, sugar no cream, as opposed to Morathis’ cream no sugar. Mardh says, “Nothing’s going to change.”

Morathis considers that while he takes a sip. “And this is in regard to…?”

“His Lordship. He doesn’t act differently at  _ home; _ he acts differently in front of those he trusts. If you think he’s going to return to the distance he stayed at before, you’re mistaken.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft tink of cup meeting saucer. Morathis examines Mardh. His expression isn’t blank and professional, it’s serious and concerned. Morathis lets himself relax minutely into the couch. “You seem to know him very well.”

“I’m Intelligence. Don’t look surprised; he was going to tell you as soon as he realized you didn’t know.” Mardh rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his tea. “He sees no reason in keeping secrets from people he trusts, even if the interested parties would rather that information not be spread.”

“That seems… Problematic.” Morathis scans through his memories for any secrets Faximil might divulge about  _ him, _ but aside from everything related to Tava, his life is both public and standard for an Ascendancy representative.

“Thankfully his confidants are few and far between. But as for your question, I’ve known him a long time. In Sith training he was so innocuous, so perfectly mediocre despite his bloodline that I knew something was there. As soon as he had the authority to take military forces I put myself in his ranks.”

Morathis frowns. “Who has your final loyalty, then? Intelligence?”

“You’ll find out when I do, I suspect.” Mardh shrugs. “They already knew about  _ home _ and it’s not a treason they’re particularly bothered by.”

“Why assign someone to him at all, then? The Ascendancy thinks my assignment is a punishment.”

“His sister. She leads an organization we keep eyes on at all times. We thought we could use His Lordship to finally dismantle it for good, but that’s simply not an option.”

Morathis frowns and drains his cup. He makes another and leans back fully into the couch. “All he’s said is that he misses her. Does he not want to work against her?”

“It’s not a question of  _ want. _ Intelligence could change his mind if they thought they could use him.”

Morathis doesn’t miss the obvious way Mardh switches to saying ‘they’ instead of ‘we,’ though he lets no reaction show on his face.

“No, His Lordship  _ can’t _ act against her. I’ll leave you to ask him the mechanics of why.” Pauses and rolls his eyes. “Undoubtedly, he’s thought he doesn’t have to tell you.”

“You’re presuming rather deeper depths to our… relationship... than exist.”

“You’re exactly the second person he’s let sleep in his bed and the only one to do so more than once. And to speak plainly, you’re a terrible judge of emotion: in yourself and others.”

Morathis shakes his head, but can’t help but remember how oblivious he’d been to Tava’s reluctance to use the Force in front of him. Nevertheless, he says, “You’re seeing-”

“Your House pin,” Mardh interrupts.

Morathis blinks and reaches for his lapel. The broken crown is still in its proper place, though it’s rotated at the wrong angle. He adjusts it and frowns. “What about the pin?”

“Months he’s been twisting that pin with the Force. Completely unthinking, you’ve fixed it within five minutes every time. That is, until we brought you home.”

A crack appears in the icy shell Morathis keeps his emotions locked behind. His fingers feel numb, so he sets the teacup down before he drops it. He stares at his hands to be sure they aren’t shaking, then he lifts his gaze to Mardh’s eyes. The imperial seems to understand the gravity of this revelation as he simply nods and waits for Morathis to collect himself.

“With this… He’s been testing me. He’s been  _ testing _ me?” Morathis recognizes the hint of hysteria in his voice and desperately grabs for his control. It’s a betrayal that steals his breath all the more because he shouldn’t  _ care. _ They’ve just been having a few kriffs. And Faximil is back behind his mask now. It shouldn’t matter if the Sith has been playing games because there’s nothing serious.

“Stop being ridiculous. As if you haven’t been testing him with how he responds to being called Sith or Faximil. He’s still shite at reading faces and body language, so he uses a crutch. I know he’s your first fuck, but quit acting like a stupid adolescent.”

The vulgarity is like a slap in the face. Morathis looks down at his hands again and then pulls himself a fresh cup and pours himself more tea. The ritual comforts him a little and before long the tightness in his chest eases. “I’ve never been this out of control. It needs to stop.”

“If you turn your back on him, he won’t chase you. He’s not a good person and even if he was, he doesn’t have time to waste on you vascilitating. You're not going to get a second chance, so ask yourself: is  _ he _ the one making you lose control, or is it your own screwed up head?”

Morathis licks his lips and sips his tea and tries not to examine himself too closely, even though that’s what Mardh is demanding. “What you’re saying is, if I can reconcile whatever this is with Fox, I won’t be…” He gestures to himself, knowing the Imperial will understand that he means the madness.

“Yes. Unless you’re far more neurotic than your file says, that is. Given the reports I’ve gotten on Tava and his acclimation progress, I say you’ll be fine once you stop thinking like a Chiss and start thinking like a person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being bad at emotions doesn't make you logical.


	8. Unnecessary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships aren't sunshine and roses.

Despite Mardh’s words and the conviction behind them, Morathis spends the night in his own bunk. The sheets are rough and the mattress is lumpy, but they never bothered him before. He tosses and turns nearly as much as Fox because  _ something _ is a writhing mess of feelings in his chest. If he could identify them, they wouldn’t bother him nearly so much, but they’re not as simple as anger or desire.

When the alarm on his chrono goes off, he feels like he hasn’t slept a wink. Morathis rubs his eyes with his palms and grudgingly pulls himself out of bed. He locks his exhaustion and lethargy behind a cold facade and appears at Fox’s left shoulder exactly when he should. The details of the next operation wash over him like so much water. Another relic acquisition, but Morathis can’t bring himself to care. Tava is safe; it doesn’t really matter what Fox is up to.

In something like a trance, Morathis goes through the motions, even mechanically taking notes on a datapad, though if pressed, he can’t tell anyone what he’s written. Follow at the correct distance, nod in acknowledgement to anyone of sufficient rank, Fox said something with his business tone, copy that down.

He’s so determinedly on autopilot that he’s stunned still when Fox breaks pattern by abruptly turning around and putting a hand on his shoulder. Morathis looks down at the hand and then glances around the room. They’re alone in Fox’s private lounge and Morathis can’t remember where or even when Mardh left them.

Fox eyes him up and down for a moment before asking, “Are you alright?

He lets a hint of his confusion show on his face. “Of course I am, why do you ask?”

“You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“It’s just business as usual, Sith,” Morathis says. He hasn’t been attentive, perhaps, but there shouldn’t be anything for Fox to pick up on. If not analysis, Morathis would say his specialty was rote professionalism.

But Fox persists. “Do you need to lay down?”

Morathis brushes Fox’s hand off his shoulder, but makes sure to let his fingers linger, so the other man doesn’t question it. “This is unnecessary. I’m fine.”

Fox leans in just a few centimeters before his pupils blow out and his eyes seem to unfocus. Morathis blinks in barely-suppressed alarm, but before he can decide on a course of action, Fox is gripping his upper arm and dragging him from the lounge. Fox walks him across the length of the ship before depositing Morathis in his cramped room with the lumpy mattress.

“We have work to do. I’m not ill,” Morathis insists.

“There is such a thing as emotional exhaustion. You can make denials for the rest of the day if you want, but you’re not working a moment longer.”

“You have no authority over me,” Morathis says. He knows that if he tries to make a denial, Fox will keep pushing.

“If you want to play that card, then  _ neither _ of us will get any work done today.” Fox crosses his arms over his chest. “If I’m not doing anything, you have nothing to do.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Fox gently takes a hold of Morathis’ upper arms. “You don’t have to understand someone caring about you. You just have to accept that I do.”

Morathis looks away from the intense, blue stare. Conceding is easier than trying to pick  _ that _ apart. “Fine. I’ll work on the encryption for calling Tava.” 

“Thank the Force. Ivan gets cross when I cancel meetings. He’s simply insufferable.”

\---

That night, Morathis makes his silent way through the ship and into Fox’s quarters. He  _ wants _ to sleep in his own bed and avoid more uncomfortable conversations, but he’s certain Fox will come looking for him if he thinks he’s hiding. The bioscanner lets him into the receiving room and Morathis doesn’t hesitate to walk into Fox’s bedroom. However, at the threshold, he realizes Fox is in the middle of a holocall.

The holo figure is a man in simple Sith robes that turns immediately to Morathis and scowls. Morathis immediately bows and takes a step back. “My apologies, Your Lordship.”

“It’s fine, Morathis,” Fox says. He smiles and gestures towards the holo. “This is Oct, my good friend.”

“Fox,” Oct says, his voice hard with anger. His posture is stiff and what Morathis can see of his expression is promising revenge.

“Don’t be like that. His brother is  _ home _ and one of the stronger ones. You’d meet Morathis eventually,” Fox says with a shrug. In contrast, Fox’s expression is as open and as amused as he allows it it to be in front of Morathis and Mardh, so this Oct must be a close friend, indeed.

The holo figure pinches the bridge of his nose. “These things aren’t as simple as you like to think.”

“There are no coincidences in the Force.”

Oct makes an angry sound and ends the call with a dramatic wave of his hand.

Morathis raises both of his eyebrows. “Pleasant, for an Afflicted.”

“You met him on one of his better days. He’s rather tetchy.” Fox shrugs and deactivates the comm unit. “Are you feeling better?”

“I’m only here so you don’t come looking for me,” Morathis says. 

Fox frowns and there’s a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows, but he’s not angry, he’s… sad. “If you don’t want to be here, you should go.”

Something about Fox’s expression pricks deep in Morathis’ chest. With a sigh, he rubs his temples. His thoughts are crowding together and fighting for space and there’s all sorts of nonsense about  _ feelings _ and  _ relationships _ that Morathis doesn’t have time for.  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I am a Sith,” Fox says, as he closes the distance between them. He puts his hand just next to Morathis’ temple, knowing he doesn’t like unsolicited touches, and uses the Force to ease his headache. “I can bend people to my will with fear and the Force. Sometimes without meaning to. I don’t want this if it’s not reciprocal. I have to consider that you might...”

In answer, Morathis tilts his head until Fox’s palm is cradling his cheek. The way Fox’s expression changes at such a small thing makes Morathis’ chest ache. He sighs again. “What are we even doing, Fox?”

His expression turns solemn and he doesn’t answer immediately. When Fox finally does speak, it’s to ask, “Do you want the real answer or the one you’ll be comfortable with?”

“There’s a terrible thing to say. What kind of choice is that?” Morathis all but snaps.

Fox strokes Morathis’ cheek with his thumb. “I take it you want the latter?”

He shakes his head, but takes care not to dislodge Fox’s hand. Morathis knows vaguely what he will say and he doesn’t want either answer. “I’ll just go without, then, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s going to drive you mad,” Fox says, his voice nearly a whisper. “Not knowing.”

“I already am. What’s another trip ‘round the bend?” Morathis says. He leans in and kisses Fox before he can keep talking.

\---

Once Fox’s hair is tied back into something that actually looks like a functional plait for the first time, Morathis settles under the blankets. After waking up the second morning wrapped around Fox the same way he had been the first morning, Morathis starts positioning himself in that same tangle of limbs when he’s trying to fall asleep. It works far better than it has any right to, what with his right arm pinned down and having a face full of auburn hair. But it does.

Fox’s warmth seeps into Morathis with a calm lethargy that relaxes him almost as much as the intercourse. He strokes the hot skin of Fox’s stomach and lets the earthy smell from his hair soothe his way to sleep. 

Sometime later, he's pulled out of his peace. He knows he fell asleep, at least for a few minutes, but it can’t have been for too long, since the morning lights aren’t on yet. Morathis closes his eyes again and tucks his face into the back of Fox’s neck. Just as he’s starting to drift off again, he feels Fox squeeze his wrist.

“Don’t worry,  _ cyare. _ It’s driving me mad, too. I’m just used to it, I suppose.” His voice is quiet, but frighteningly clear in the night. “The madness, that is. Not falling in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rathi is very. very. bad at this.


	9. Simple Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to the wrong conclusion can lead to the correct action, practically speaking, never. Morathis is particularly lucky.

Morning dawns without fanfare. The soft morning lights slowly warm Fox’s bedroom in a comfortable facsimile of a natural day cycle. Morathis nuzzles the back of Fox’s neck and then extricates his limbs from the warm tangle. His head is clearer than it’s been since he landed on Olkin II and found his brother alive and well. Whatever the mess with Fox is, it’s clearly some Afflicted madness he’d let himself be influenced by. Fox’s quiet confession the night before made that perfectly clear.

Sith don’t _fall in love._ They spend their free time, or working time for some, consuming their passions in one way or another. And Morathis is a good soldier of the Ascendancy. The very suggestion that he might be developing feelings of that type is preposterous at best. He can hardly believe he got so worked up over nothing. Fox is being a Sith and that’s all there is to it. With his mind at ease, Morathis tucks a stray lock of red hair into Fox’s braid before heading out for his meeting with Mardh.

Time passes much more quickly when Morathis is neither worrying about Tava, nor caught up in Fox’s madness. He picks up the manka’s share of the modifications that need to be done on Olkin II’s files because he can channel them through the Ascendancy, lending them another level of legitimacy. It all seems rather unnecessary, since Imperial Intelligence already knows, but Morathis is more than willing to do whatever he can to make Tava’s new home safer.

It’s strange to hear Fox and Mardh talk about _home_ when they mean the Forcer colony, but it makes sense. Even if they trust all of their men, there’s always the slight chance of listening devices. And beyond any devices, it trains everyone in Fox’s command to call it _home,_ making them less likely to accidentally divulge anything. While all of the high-level staff have some measure of Force resistance, Morathis knows first hand how easy it is for a determined Sith to break through mental barriers.

He’d been emotionally compromised when Fox crashed through his mind like a wild bronto and stole Tava’s location, but anyone being questioned on Olkin II won’t be in a good place when it’s happening. Despite his previous comments about cost-benefit analyses, Morathis eventually agrees to meditation lessons to bolster his Force resistance and mental strength.

Between daily lessons with Mardh and his work on Olkin II’s documents, it’s nearly two months before Morathis thinks to ask what, exactly, Fox is researching.

They’re in the open-air office attached to the military compound. Fox’s Sith robes are casually draped over the back of his chair, so he’s only wearing a thin black undershirt and simple trousers. The sight warms Morathis’ blood the same way it always does, but it’s a quiet hum under his skin knowing he’ll strip the tailored items off his lover later.

Fox looks up from the tablet he’s examining and brushes a few loose strands of hair out of his face. He’s still wearing last night’s braid and that’s equally responsible for the itching in Morathis’ palms. “Ivan didn’t tell you?”

“He said to ask you, but I had other concerns at the time,” Morathis replies. He’s standing at Fox’s right shoulder and unthinkingly brushes his arm. “It didn’t seem important.”

Fox looks back at him, but there’s none of his usual delight at seeing Morathis. “I’m afraid there’s little that’s more important.”

They’re alone in the office, without even Mardh in attendance, but Morathis still translates ‘little’ to Olkin II without comment. His tongue darts out and wets his lips. “If not that, what is it?”

There’s a tremble to Fox’s lips when he breaks eye contact and turns back to the stone. He leans in over the carving and types a translation into a datapad with one hand while tracing the old letters with the other. He says nothing, but the tightness in his jaw says more than Morathis wants it to.

“Fox…” When his nickname garners no response, Morathis places his hand on Fox’s back. Still nothing. Morathis swallows and then whispers, as if a lower volume might take some significance out of what he’s about to say. “Sa’alle?”

A sharp intake of breath from him tells Morathis that Fox knows the significance of addressing him that way. Fox’s breath shudders on his next exhale. “I’m dying, Rathi.”

Morathis doesn’t know which hits him harder: the use of his root name or the confession itself. His fingers reflexively dig into Fox’s back. “What are you talking about?”

“I was born cursed. When my sister came of age, I would be sacrificed so that my Life Force would empower her. Linora died when I was still a child, but Sybil… Three years? Two? She hasn’t started pressing the timeline yet, but Ivan’s run the numbers. She will.”

“And these relics, the tablets and the datacrons, they’ll give you some way to kill her?”

“She’s my baby sister. I was the only one who cared enough to hold her when she was born. I can’t… No. No, these tablets may have a way to block the curse, though. To make it so she can’t use me as a sacrifice. Most Sith blood curses are designed in favor of the primogeniture - me - which may give me a way in.”

They stay perfectly still like that. Morathis’ hand on Fox’s back and the Sith bent halfway over the tablet. The words hang in the air like a thick miasma over tar pits. Finally, Morathis lowers his chin, bowing his head to the awful future. “Tell me what to do, Sa’alle.”

“Stay. Just… Just stay, Rathi.”

Morathis leans in and presses his forehead to Fox’s temple. One or both of them is shaking. It hardly matters.

“As you say, My Lord,” Rathi says, as if the harsh formality can make the revelation burn less.

\---

The sex is different that night. Not just because Fox is the one taking him, though that’s the only reason Morathis is willing to put words to. Neither wants to separate, even to wash up. Their legs are tangled up and their foreheads are pressed together and Morathis feels like he’s been given telepathy at the worst possible time because he _knows_ the thoughts behind the serious look in Fox’s eyes. Morathis kisses him to try to avoid addressing it.

It doesn’t work.

“I would rather prefer to call you Rathi, moving forward,” Fox says.

It’s such a small thing, that Fox pronounces his root name correctly. ‘Rathi’ alone is said very differently from how it sounds in the center of Morathis. And it’s not that his parents mispronounce the name they gave him; it’s that once he dedicated himself to Seris, no one outside of Tava ever addressed him by his root name.

“Is now really the time for this?” Rathi asks to further avoid the issue.

Fox strokes Rathi’s cheek with his thumb and gives him a small smile. “I’ve been dying my whole life. This is one of the few times I’ve really felt like I’m living.”

And if those words aren’t enough to rip Rathi’s heart out of his chest and plant it in Fox’s, Rathi doesn’t know what is. He doesn’t have words, so Rathi squeezes Fox’s wrist and climbs out of bed. He goes into the refresher and tosses Fox a warm, damp hand towel that hits him in the shoulder with a wet _smack_. He listens to Fox’s warm chuckle as he washes up and then chuckles himself as the hand towel floats through the air and falls into the hamper for the cleaning droid to see to later.

Once he’s clean and dry, Rathi returns to their bed and sits at Fox’s back. He undoes the tie on Fox’s auburn hair and starts brushing the length out. He settles into a comfortable rhythm and then asks, “What was it you called me that night? Sha-ray?”

“ _Cyare_ ,” Fox corrects. He doesn’t even try to pretend he didn’t know Rathi was awake, then. “It’s a Mandalorian word for belovéd.”

Rathi snorts. He separates Fox’s long hair into sections, mentally scrolling through the list of instructions for a complicated plait. “You’re not Mandalorian. Don’t they skewer Outsiders that use their language?”

“Not everyone’s native tongue is literally impossible for other races to speak.”

“That doesn’t answer why an Afflicted is using a Mandalorian endearment for a Chiss,” Rathi says. With deliberate movements, Rathi twists and braids Fox’s hair.

“I’m hardly a Sith in my heart. There was a captive Mandalorian in the Main House when I was a child. Even knowing I was Sensitive, he saw himself in me. He taught me their ways and… It was far from the first time I wished I wasn’t Afflicted.”

“I like you as you are, which is far too recalcitrant for a Mandalorian clan to suffer,” Rathis says.

Fox only chuckles in response.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rathi saying “As you say, My Lord.” should be familiar.


	10. Obeisance

Stone statues of slaves howl silently throughout the ruins. No details were missed in their creation: the veins bulge in their necks, smooth scars cut through scraggly facial hair, and the fingernails are torn and jagged. Most are human or twilek and all completely untouched by the passage of time. Rathi suppresses a shudder as he walks behind Fox. His hope that his cursed knife might hold some of the evil at bay is for naught, since the blade is resonating with the old pain.

“I take it we’re in agreement to never describe this place to Octavian,” Rathi says. Though he doesn’t lower his voice, it doesn’t echo the way it should in the wide, open hall.

“He’s seen worse,” Fox says, his voice similarly muted. His saber is in his hand, the glow from the blade far outshining Rathi’s torch. “I’m thankful you can’t really experience this place,  _ cyare. _ The screams are deafening.”

Rathi glances at Fox’s face, but it’s obscured by shadows. He shifts his grip on the torch. “We can leave.”

“We can’t. The ritual is  _ here. _ My blood resonates with the agony,” Fox says.

“We can get Mardh and the men,” Rathi says.

“I can’t shield them from the evil the way I can you.” Fox raises his saber to see further down the hall, but it appears endless. Just statues of suffering on to infinity. “Once I have the datacron, we can leave.”

Rathi says nothing else. He concentrates on the sound of their footsteps, ensures that each one is in time with their footfalls. Auditory illusions are more insidious and more difficult to break and Rathi won’t let himself be fooled.

Eventually, Fox stops in front of a kneeling statue, though this one looks no different from any of the others, as far as Rathi can tell. Without warning, Fox slices the top half of the statue off. It clatters to the floor with a series of muted  _ thunks _ that should have crashed and echoed. Nestled inside of the statue is an inactive datacron. Fox reaches in and as soon as the metal tips from the claws on his glove touches it, a cloud of spirits burst out.

Rathi drops the torch with a curse and draws his blaster.

The black wisps pierce the stone floor, which crumbles as animated skeletons pull themselves through it.

“Is this, real?” Rathi asks, aiming his blaster with only his left hand.

“Mostly,” Fox replies. He swings his saber through one of the skeletons and it explodes into corpse dust. He dashes toward with the help of the Force and swings his saber in a wide arc that lights the hall even as it destroys the skeletons. However, the shorn statue is still spewing out shades.

Rathi alternates between headshotting the skeletons and slashing across their rib cages with his cursed knife. Soon, he and Fox are both covered in a fine layer of grey dust that makes Rathi cough between waves. “This doesn’t seem to be working, Sa’alle.”

“So I gathered,” Fox says. His voice is tight and strained.

Rathi risks a glance at his lover and can’t help the epithet that rips itself from his chest. “Fire and ash!”

“That’s the point!” Fox shouts in return, though his lip movements don’t match the words at all. While he holds the skeletons at bay with his saber, his left hand is glowing bright red and tracing complex runes in the air. As each one completes, it flashes and drops onto the floor where it slots itself inside of a ritual circle traced in the dust on by Fox’s  _ karking _ footsteps.

Rathi feels equal parts faint and aroused, so he jerks his gaze away and focuses on keeping the skeletons away from Fox. His arms are tiring and his once-white uniform is grey and black from dust and ash. He pushes back his exhaustion and fights more aggressively to give Fox more space for his circle.

A small rumble heralds Fox’s completion of the ritual and Rathi has all of two seconds to hit the floor before the circle explodes in a shower of stone fragments and bones. He rolls to his feet and spins to face Fox.

Both of the Sith’s hands are glowing red. The datacron is alive with sharp green light in its heart and the glow rivals that from Fox’s blood-red saber. Though there are no more skeletons, Fox stays in his aggressive stance with his saber high in the air.

The last of the black wisps of spirit coalesce and writhe in the air before forming into the translucent image of a robed and masked Sith. The only color on the ghost is the bright red Sa’alle marks on the Sith’s mask. Fox lifts his chin at the ghost.

“How dare you desecrate my sanctuary, child?” The ghost’s voice is hollow and the first sound to echo in the hall. 

“I am Lord Sa’alle. It’s mine to do with as I will.” Fox’s voice booms with strength and pride. His eyes are so fiercely yellow that they glow in the dimness.

“You’re no Sa’alle, pretender.”

The sleeve on Fox’s robe falls away in shreds under the tearing power of the Force. The skin on his forearm splits open and his blood drips onto the cracked stone floor. Fox is unmoved throughout it to the point that Rathi isn’t sure if he’s doing to himself or if it’s some machination of the ghost’s.

“Bow to me,” Fox orders.

“Meet your death, pretender,” the ghost says as it flies through the air directly into Fox’s chest.

Fox holds his saber in front of himself, but even though it splits the ghost lengthwise, the black wisps still pierce his chest. He collapses to knees, though he drops neither the datacron nor his saber.

Rathi’s breath is frozen in his chest and his muscles are too locked with tension and fear for him to move. Helpless, he stares at Fox’s still pose.

A primal howl of pain and power shatters out of Fox’s chest and echoes throughout the hall. Slowly, Fox rises to his feet and turns to Rathi.

Though Fox’s eyes are still yellow, Rathi isn’t afraid. His cursed knife is dormant in his hand, no longer feeding off of the oppressive aura of the ruins. He examines Fox’s expression, but the pain and self-loathing are exactly what Rathi expects. After sheathing his knife and holstering his blaster, Rathi moves his stiff limbs until he’s half clinging to Fox and half fruitlessly patting at the grave dust that covers both of them.

“Let’s go home, Rathi,” Fox says before falling unconscious.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fox can be a creepy mother-fucker when he's doing sorcery.


	11. Security

Pounding footsteps echo through the hallway and into the hospital suite. Rathi doesn’t bother looking up from his datapad. The guards outside have been turning away well-wishers all day. Once Fox is back on his feet, Rathi is going to tear the security detail to shreds and teach them all proper handling and protocol because no one should have gotten inside the building, let alone on the floor with Fox’s suite.

He ignores the fact that everyone pounding through the halls is authorized hospital personnel because there’s nothing he can do about the fervent sycophancy that permeates all of Olkin II. Rathi further ignores the muffled voices he can hear on the other side of the door. He squeezes Fox’s hand and rubs his thumb across the back of it.

The moment the door opens, Rathi is on his feet with his free hand on the hilt of his cursed knife. However, the only person to enter is Tava, who sprints across the suite and leaps at him.

“Is Lord Fox going to be okay?” Tava asks, his voice so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the whirring from the medical machines.

Rathi chokes on a laugh as he wraps his free hand around his brother’s back in a hug. “Lord Fox?”

Fox squeezes Rathi’s hand, though there’s no strength in his grip. “He didn’t like Faximil.”

“You should be sleeping,” Rathi says. He starts to pull away to take Tava out of the suite. “And you shouldn’t be here, Tava. I was going to see you as soon as I could.”

Fox holds on to Rathi’s fingers as tightly as he can. “Stay, Rathi.”

It’s the use of his root name, not the grip that holds Rathi in place. “You need rest, dear heart. You weren’t even expected to wake until tomorrow.”

Fox’s eyes are closed and the skin around them is dark with exhaustion. Though the doctors claimed he was fine, he still looks half-dead. Nevertheless, there’s a grin on his face. “You bring me strength,  _ cyare _ .”

Tava climbs onto the opulent medical bed and sits next to Fox’s hip. “Did you get it?”

Rathi looks suspiciously between his lover and his brother. “Get what? You had best not have offered to get him a pet.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fox says. After a pause he adds, “Well, maybe, but no. It’s not that. And I purchased one. I expect it to arrive before we leave.”

“That still doesn’t tell me what  _ it _ is,” Rathi says.

“One of Donovan’s paintings,” Tava answers.

Rathi raises an eyebrow at his little brother. “Are you trying to bribe the Armandes?”

Fox says, “No” at the same time Tava says, “Yes.”

Rathi would cross his arms over his chest and stare them both down if that didn’t require releasing Fox’s hand. “Well?”

“Shh, let me handle him,” Fox says. His eyes are still closed and he’s still grinning. Damn Afflicted. “He wanted to show his appreciation for their kindness. It’s the least I can do to oblige.”

“I looked for the paintings myself, Sa’alle. Freedom is expensive in your Empire.”

“Can you argue it’s not worth the price?” Fox asks.

“I can  _ argue _ anything,” Rathi snaps back, though his annoyance is affected. “You should have told me what you were doing.”

“I can negotiate my own deals,” Tava says. He’s pouting and it accentuates the baby fat the Armandes have put on him. He’s happy and relaxed in a way he never was with House Arimo.

“And what exactly do you have to bargain with?”

“Information,” Fox answers for the boy. “You’re not a particularly forthcoming partner.”

The word  _ partner  _ skewers Rathi, as so many of Fox’s do lately. Rathi knows him well, knows the deliberateness with which Fox chooses his words. He doesn’t mean partner in work or combat. Fox means partner as… as a permanent arrangement. Rathi squeezes Fox’s hand and brings it to his chest. He doesn’t share Fox’s madness, he can’t just  _ say _ things like that, but it doesn’t stop him from being moved.

When he’s sure he can keep his tone even, Rathi tells his brother, “Send me the letter you plan to give them with the painting. I’ll ensure it’s suitable.”

Tava blows a raspberry at Rathi before hopping off the medical cot and hugging him. “I will. Auntie said you should come for lunch tomorrow.”

“As long as Sa’alle is doing well enough, I’ll be there.”

“Good! I’ll see you tomorrow, Rathi.”

Rathi waits to speak until he hears the door shut. “You’re an insufferable rogue, making deals with my brother.”

Fox chuckles, but it lacks the strength his earlier words held. Undoubtedly, he was using the Force to hide his weakness. “Can you blame me?”

“I love you. I’ll blame you for whatever I like.”

Fox beams at him with a smile bright enough to burn.

\---

Light rain sprinkles the fields outside of Olkin II’s capital city. Not that Rathi can tell from the window. He can barely see out into the darkness, but that’s never stopped Fox from relentlessly staring. Rathi has long since given up on making out any meaningful shapes in the darkness and instead focuses on the intricate eight-strand plait he’s twisting Fox’s hair into.

What started out as grasping out at the first idea his panicked mind could come up with had become… Routine. Part of their life. Fox sits in a low-backed chair or lies limp in their bed and Rathi meticulously brushes out the length of his hair before tying it up in ever more complicated braids. It relaxes them both and even if Rathi struggles to find words for how it makes him feel, he feels it all the same. Those nights when they’re too busy or too tired always leave Rathi with a sense of having missed something.

Rathi ties off the plait and admires his work for a moment before kissing Fox’s temple. He leans over until he’s looking out at the same height. “What is it you’re always looking for, dear heart?”

“Nothing, anymore. It’s just habit now.”

“But before?” Rathi asks.

“Peace.” Fox turns his head and kisses Rathi on the mouth. It’s soft, but still as laden with fire as ever. “But now I have you.”

“You’re a rotten sentimentalist.”

“We all have our vices,” Fox says as he pulls Rathi over to sit on the arm of his chair.

“You’re going to break this one, too, if you keep this up,” Rathi says, though he still lets himself be draped over Fox’s lap.

“It’s only credits.” Fox presses their foreheads together for a moment before looking back out of the window. “The Ascendancy wants to promote you.”

Rathi follows his gaze, but still sees nothing. “That was communicated to me, yes.”

Fox strokes the back of his neck and sits silently, but only for a moment. His voice is hushed when he speaks again. “You could be a great asset to them, in another position.”

“Obviously,” Rathi replies.

“I’m serious.”

“As am I. I don’t trust these rituals and Afflicted nonsense. I’ll see you protected with my own hands, whatever comes.” The words are so serious they should clatter oddly to the ground, with the silly way Rathi is sprawled across Fox’s lap, but the juxtapositions are just part of who they are.

“Even if you took a position elsewhere, Tava-”

“Don’t insult me. I know you’d never hold that over me.”

Fox sighs and tilts his head until their temples are pressed together. “I love you, Rathi.”

“Obviously.”

Fox’s voice falls to barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid of what she might do to you, if she finds out what you mean to me.”

“Then be afraid for me, for I will stay here and shield you from what she  _ will _ do to you, dear heart.” Rathi pulls Fox’s hands into his lap and holds them tightly. They continue to stare out of, or at, the window.

Eventually, Fox says, “I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“It’s about time someone put you in that position.”

Fox laughs, a soft, warm thing right in Rathi’s ear. “I  _ really _ love you.”

Rathi just chuckles in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love Rathi too much. ;~;
> 
> I'm doing another fic-art trade and am getting a tarot card for Rathi (from a different, but also amazing artist) so I will post a link to that somewhere in the Rathi Lives AU, because I can't write this and NOT have an AU where Rathi lives.


End file.
